Warren Murphy: The End of the Game

"What are you here for anyway? What phone call are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting to find out where Buell is," Remo said.

"I'd be better off trying to find him myself," Pamela said.

"Why don't you try?" Remo said hopefully.

"Because you're so hopeless that without me, you're liable to get hurt and then I'd feel guilty for causing it. For not staying around to take care of you."

"I promise not to come back and haunt your dreams," Remo said.

"You're pretty tenacious for somebody who's just supposed to be tracking down an obscene phone caller," she said.

"You too for somebody with just a tweaked titty," Remo said.

"That's gross. I'm staying."

"Do what you want," Remo said. He thought he'd rather have her tagging along for a while than argue with her. But he still didn't know why she wanted to stay.

Abner Buell did.

Outside the small central California town of Hernandez is a strange elevation of volcanic rock, rising fifty feet above the surrounding scrub grass. Abner Buell had bought the property and fifty surrounding acres three years earlier, and when he had seen the small mountain, he had hollowed it out and built inside it-- separated from the outside world by fifteen-foot-thick walls of rock-- a private apartment and laboratory.

He sat there now facing another of the computer consoles which he had in every home and apartment he occupied anywhere in the world.

It would be hours before he was to call Dr. Smith again, and he whiled away the time by reconfirming that he was able to tap into the Russian military-command computers.

Using satellite transmissions, he tapped into the Soviet system and amused himself by finding out actual troop strength in Afghanistan. He called up the number of spies in the Russian mission to the United Nations. The listing of names went on so long that Buell gave his computer simpler instructions:

"How many members of the Russian UN mission are not spies?"

The computer listed three names-- the chief ambassador, a chauffeur second-grade, and a pastry chef named Pierre.

Pamela Thrushwell came into his mind and on a whim, he tapped the Russian KGB computer network and asked how many spies the Soviet Union had inside Great Britain. "Five-minute reading limit on lists," he wrote.

The computer responded: "List too lengthy. Russian nationals who are spies? Or British who work as spies for USSR?"

He thought for a moment and asked: "How many members of British Secret Service are on KGB payroll as double agents?"

The machine instantly started to print out lines of names. Row after row of them. The names had filled up the screen twice and, in alphabetical order, they were still in the A's.

Buell remembered he had forgotten to give the machine a limit on the number of names it could print. He voided the instructions and asked: "How many members of British Secret Service are not on KGB payroll?"

Three names popped up on the screen instantly. One was the deputy director of the Secret Service, another was the agency's seventh-ranking man in Hong Kong. The third was Pamela Thrushwell, computer analyst.

Buell sat back in surprise and stared at the name. So Thrushwell was a British agent. That explained why she had been hanging on to this Remo so persistently to try to track down Buell.

She must have been trying to track him down since he had had that lark, messing around with Britain's government computers and almost moving the government into a friendship treaty with Russia. Thrushwell must have been assigned to find out how to plug that hole in the computer system.

A spy. And he had thought of her as just a nice-looking blond with an interesting accent and wonderful breasts. That's what he got for underestimating women.

Marcia came into the room with food on a tray for him. She was wearing a long diaphanous white gown of some thin gauze. She was naked beneath it and Buell felt an unaccustomed faint stirring of desire. He reached out and cupped a hand around her right buttocks. She smiled at him, tossed her red hair, and nodded toward the television monitor.

"What's that list?" she asked.

"It wouldn't interest you," he said.

"Everything about you interests me," she said. "Really, what is it?"

"It's a list of the three British secret agents who don't work for the Russians."

Marcia smiled, her full lips pulling back to expose long pearly teeth. "Only three?" she said.

He nodded. "Those are the three who don't work for the Russians. I don't know. They might be double agents for somebody else. For Argentina, for all I know." He kneaded her buttocks with his fingers. "I think I want you," he said.

"I always want you," she said. "I am here to serve you."

"I want you to go to the bedroom and put on a T-shirt and wait for me."

"Just a T-shirt?"

"Yes. A wet one. I want it wet and transparent."

She nodded submissively and looked at the screen again.

"That name. Pamela. Isn't she the woman who's following you?"

"Yes," he said.

"Isn't that dangerous? To have her looking for you along with the Americans?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to get rid of all of them," he said.

"Us too," Marcia said with a smile. "You promised. Us too."

"I'll keep my promise," Buell said. "When the world goes, we go with it."

"You're so wonderful," she said.

"There's nothing left in life," he said. "I've played all the games. There's no one who can even challenge me."

Marcia nodded. "I'll go put on that wet T-shirt," she said.

"Quick. Before the mood passes," Buell said.

It was well after dark when the telephone in Smith's office rang.

"This is Buell. Have you decided?"

"Yes," Smith said. "I accede to your demand."

"That easily? No negotiations? No hard bargaining?" "Do I have anything to bargain with?"

"No. And I'm glad you realize it. That's one of the nicer qualities of you bureaucratic types," Buell said. "You never try to fight the inevitable."

Smith said nothing and the silence hung in his office like a small cloud of smoke.

Buell finally said, "There are certain things I want."

"Which are?"

"I want to see it done so I know it's not some kind of trick. After all, this Remo's been pestering me. I deserve to see him go."

"Tell me what you want," Smith said.

"There's a small town in California named Hernandez," Buell began and gave Smith directions to a clearing where he wanted Remo killed. "Tomorrow at high noon," he said.

"All right," Smith said. He suppressed a small smile, even though he felt he deserved one. Buell had made a mistake.

"How are you going to do it?" Buell asked.

"By hand," Smith said.

"I don't think you can do it," Buell said. "I've seen this guy Remo. He's hard to beat."

"I can beat him," Smith said.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"You'll see it tomorrow at noon," Smith said.

"How will I know you? What do you look like?" Buell asked.

"I'm old. I'll be wearing an ornamental Oriental robe."

"You Oriental? With a name like Smith?"

"Yes," Smith said. "Until tomorrow." And then he hung up.

And now Smith smiled.

Remo would die. There was no helping that. But so would Abner Buell. And the world would be saved.

He told himself he would make the same deal every time.

sChapter Fourteen

On the first ring of the telephone, Remo shoved Pamela Thrushwell into the bathroom. On the second ring, he broke the lock so she could not open the door. He answered the phone on the third ring.

"Did you find out where he is?" he said.

"I've found out where he will be," Smith said laconically.

"Okay. When and where?" Remo stuck a finger in his free ear to block out the thumping from the bathroom door.

"There's a small town named Hernandez-- Remo, are you alone?"